A Tortured Confession

 

 

� 1998 Lance Edwards

 

 

 

I really love my Master.

 

It�s not who he is. It�s what he is, and what he does. I never see his face anyway, so who he is doesn�t matter. He�s just a big, hard, muscular male body, naked except for a full leather hood, spike-studded wrist cuffs and a wide, heavy black collar.

 

His skin gleams hotly in the reddish light: flexing and bunching beautifully as he moves. It�s by far the most captivating thing in our dark, smoky surroundings. I�m helpless to look at anything else. Soon he�ll go to work on me in earnest: mixing unbearable pain and pleasure in the most compelling fashion. Then all conscious thought will cease. I�ll be nothing but a mindless receptacle, filling up with whatever sublime offering Master chooses to give. But for now I can take this brief moment just to stare at him, to admire his gorgeous form and cherish him for what he is.

 

He�s just finished securing my naked body, and now he goes to light some more candles, and more incense. His shoulders are an oaken yoke, his hard round ass a pair of grinding stones and the back between a beautiful brown topography of sculpted muscle and bone. Without being able to see it I also know that his gigantic, uncircumcised penis is now completely erect: proudly jutting inches above his belly button and straining for that killer moment of eventual release. He�s always as hard as a rock by the time he finishes binding me, and he usually stays that way until he�s expended himself at least two or even three times. He must enjoy our sessions as much as I do. Either that or he�s superhuman.

 

Superhuman I am definitely not. Just an average attractive female, enslaved by the sensations a human body is capable of experiencing. To be on the bottom, submissive, is my natural position, so much so that I love to turn over all control to a strong, cruelly effective Master. Forsaking all responsibility, I trust him to train and tune, use and abuse my flesh until it produces an incredible symphony of neural sensation, an orchestra of excruciation that cascades through my soul in never-ending crescendos of orgasm after orgasm after screaming, shuddering, hip-bucking orgasm. That�s the only way I can achieve fulfillment, plain and simple, and thank heaven I�ve found a Master potent enough to supply me with the extreme levels of pain and humiliation that I crave.

 

Down here in his dungeon my bonds are simple enough, and so are his tools. My wrists are strapped tightly together and chained to a winch-powered cable that draws them high above my head. A long, adjustable spreader bar with locking cuffs on each end separates and secures my ankles. Master has extended the bar considerably, splitting my lower body as wide as anatomy allows. Thanks to the slender length of my limber young legs, that�s extremely wide indeed. The blindfold and ball-gag have been left off for now, so that�s it for bondage. My long, thick, dark brown hair is tied off to either side in tightly braided pigtails, and my split-apart, standing-on-tiptoes body awaits his attentions.

 

At last my Master turns back to me, a long whip dangling from his hand. Right away I see I was not mistaken. His thick eleven inches curves wickedly up, measuring out its impressive length against the runnelled ruler of his washboard stomach.

 

It barely bobs as he approaches: so urgently erect that its heavily veined shaft and egg-sized head can�t be bothered with acknowledging things like gravity, or jarring footsteps. In fact, it hardly even waggles as he kicks back my feet, offsetting the spreader bar from the ceiling winch, so much so that I soon sag sway-backed: my gratuitously large, ovoid breasts dangling pendulously down from the tilted barrel of my chest. My arms stretch higher and higher above me and ever further behind my head, the strain screaming in my shoulder sockets, as the winch slowly lowers me and my split-wide legs are drawn further and further back. Then finally Master snaps the center of that six-foot spreader bar to an adjustable iron pole now jutting a bare foot off the floor.

 

There I hang, stretched-out naked in an agonizing curve, facedown, legs spread, every surface of my body available for abuse. My big, fat tits look huger than ever, pulled out wide and boldly thrust forward by the bowing of my back and shoulders, and yet also drawn directly downward by the tug of gravity on my posture. They hang from me as full and tender as a pair of juicy honeydew melons, bursting on the edge over-ripeness. Even better, both the cavernous cleavage between them and my gasping mouth are now at the perfect height for providing my Master with service.

 

Already I begin to salivate, eyeing that gorgeous piece of meat like Pavlov�s dog. That�s how he usually frees the first monstrous need throbbing through his balls � though not until he�s warmed us both up with a good, vigorous whipping. And that�s how he starts out this time.

 

Silent except for grunts of effort and his gradually laboring breath, Master finally goes to work on me: circling my suspended, suffering form and lashing away with his long, thin, plaited leather whip. My uncontainable cries of pain form a delicious erotic counterpoint to the constant whistle and crack of lash on flesh, and at last the sweat begins to flow -- quickly followed by the obligatory blood and tears.

 

Viciously my lovely Master stripes my shivering flesh, leaving crisscrossing lines of excruciation all over my bare, upturned back-side. From tender exposed foot-soles to the delicate nape of my neck, he writes my need in welts as livid and throbbing as the head of his glorious cock, and god, I can�t wait �til he finally thrusts that monster meat-pole into me! Yet anticipation is one more agony I live to endure. Instead of begging him for a fuck I merely scream and shudder, and suffer the occasional orgasm, as Master spends a good forty or so minutes slashing his sacred marks across the clear, creamy white skin I�ve always been so perversely fond of.

 

Fun with candle wax comes after that. By now the two-inch tops of the room�s many candles are brimming with burning fluid: several teaspoons� full collected in the basin the flames have melted around the wick. One by one, Master carries them over and pours the searing liquid all over my whipped-raw back: sending my helpless body into wracking, involuntary struggles. Exquisitely galvanizing spastic convulsions rattle my chains like those of a tormented ghost.

 

My shrill screams shiver the air, as the hot tallow splatters and runs and trickles around: slowly burning arcane, meandering doodles atop the existing angular calligraphy of the welts. But after an unknowable while, every candle in the room has been drained, and their spent fuel is dried and crusted in hard little drops and twisted runnels that cover my elaborately wounded dorsal side. At last my Master can turn his attention to my front.

 

Not that he�s completely done with the back. Eventually he�ll return there, if only to step inside the spreader bar, insert that club of his in my gaping center and hammer himself to exhaustion. But for now it�s time for tit torture, and the inevitable oral follow-up. My swaying, mammoth  mammaries are just too enticing to ignore. First a pair of excruciating alligator clips are attached to my large, sensitive red nipples. Then heavy lead weights are added: digging in those stabbing teeth and dragging my dangling udders down even further towards the floor. I whimper in pain, as Master proceeds to slap them around: roughly squeezing and fondling and kneading them like springy sacks of liquid lust. But that�s barely the beginning. Soon he steps back and goes to work with the whip.

 

Hitting just the tits takes a surprising amount of skill. But skill is one of the many things my Master has in abundance. His powerfully muscled body uses a clever, sidearm stroke to slash that thin leather lash viciously into my hanging breasts.

 

One at a time or both together, again and again, from every side, he strikes those fat, u-shaped bags of heavily depending flesh until they can�t stop quivering with an excess of agony and arousal. Soon the erection of my nipples challenges the strong teeth and springs of my tit-clips: fighting back against their incessant pinch by puckering up and prickling ever harder in response to each tug of the attached weights. Raw, livid red welts quickly cover those pinkish-white, ripely swollen jiggle-globes, and salty sweat stings in every cut as it streams down those majestic slopes to drip from the screaming nipples. Slickening those shapely udders up, lubing them for their long-delayed intended use, that natural oil trickles down from my neck and pits until the floor beneath me is dark with it. Then finally, after an eternity of agony and anticipation, torture time at last turns into taking time. Master casts aside the whip. Cock throbbing, testicles drawn up tight, he slowly approaches, until his beautiful groin is less than a bare inch away from my face.

 

At this distance his enormous prick looks the size of a horses�, maybe even that of a big bull elephant. He removes the stabbing nipple clips, setting off yet more screaming impulses. Then he grabs a big fat tit in each abusing hand. With an indescribable groan he leans forward and slides his red-hot cock directly between them. Clamping a huge handful of quivering, oily-wet woman-flesh against his rod from either side, he starts thrusting away: pumping his monster penis through the slippery clutch of my cleavage and down toward my depending belly.

 

His vein-ridged length scours my abused breasts. His up-thrusting head-bulb slams repeatedly into the vulnerable rib-hollow just below my sternum. Tit-fucking me from the top on down, his every potent stroke ends up by poking me rudely in the gut. At the same time, the downward curve of my cruelly hanging body provides his up-straining organ with a delicious amount of resistance.

 

The effect must be incredible. He huffs and puffs and humps and pumps: moaning and groaning and thrusting away, building his rhythm ever faster, until I begin to fear that he�ll waste that always copious load by shooting it out all over my slender belly. But of course, Master�s much more professional than that. When he�s finally had his fill of fucking my slick tits, he moves on to an actual orifice.

 

His backstroke slips from between my breasts. Freed of that imprisoning downward press of flesh, his long, one-eyed monster springs eagerly upward. At the same time his hands release my mams and grab the tight braids of my hair: perfectly designed head-handles. I know what�s coming, of course, and my jaw drops obediently open: tongue out, soft lips pursed to cushion. Not missing a beat of his urgent rhythm, Master slips through those lips and rams himself home.

 

Suddenly my mouth and throat are filled with pulsing cock: a huge, hard and yet soft, thick and tasty stick of hotly burning flesh that�s arousing and humiliating and insistently demanding in its entry. It thumps against the back of my throat, and with less than half its length inserted Master impatiently yanks my head brutally up and back. This opens my esophagus all the way, and with an ungodly grunt and thrust he finishes his penetration: slamming that entire eleven-inch length deep inside me. This is where I used to retch, but I�ve been schooled extensively in cocksucking since then. Now I merely close my eyes and endure, my mouth wedged creakingly wide and my open throat crammed to capacity with that enormous prick.

 

For a moment Master revels in the wet depth of his engulfment. Pressing forward as far as possible, he wiggles his waist and grinds his groin against my humiliated face. Then he smoothly withdraws from me only to immediately slam it back in again, and then again, and again, and again: withdraw-thrust, withdraw-thrust, withdraw-thrust, his strong fists on my head holding my face in place, his legs spread wide and braced, his powerful body rocking, clenched buttocks pumping, he resumes his hard-driving rhythm with barely a hitch. The only difference now is that instead of chafing my wounded tits, and pounding against my gut, his manic pace has his endless shaft sliding through my slippery lips. His clenched balls slap against my chin, and his big swollen cock-head relentless tests the depths of my gullet.

 

Ah, yes, face-fucked at last! What could possibly be better? I hang here helpless, agony screaming in my spine and shoulders, with my entire skin blazing with welts and scalds and my giant tits jiggling to the rhythm of the god-like cock that�s skewering me. The quick hitching of Master�s breath, the frantic quality of his grunts and thrusts, warn me that�s he�s approaching the point of crisis, and I clamp my lips even tighter around him.

 

Perhaps if I pleasure him enough he�ll consent to feed me. So I suck for all I�m worth at that giant organ, frantically tickling its sliding underside with my rapidly wiggling tongue. This drives him over the edge at last, but rather than rewarding me with the coveted meal, Master decides to merely soil my unworthy features. A rapid climb in both his face-humping pace and the tone of his moans accelerates until he finally cries out sharply with release. He steps back and pulls from my lips at last. One hand clamps around my chin then, and the other abandons my skull to grip that lengthy, emerging shaft.

 

Already he�s ejaculating, gifting my tongue with one tiny drop before he uses his tightly clutching fists to direct that delicious load elsewhere. He holds my head steady with the left while the right hand pumps and points. Almost the entirely of his ejaculate spurts out, loops up and splatters across my humiliated features. Covering cheeks, chin, jaw, nose, even my eyebrows and forehead with hot sticky clots and gobs and ribbons of his exalted seed, Master groans in ball-draining ecstasy: pumping and squeezing and milking that incredible pole of his until it�s produced every last pearl possible. Round, salty white drops of jizz drip down my eyelids and run along my nose: trickling to wherever gravity intends to take them. And finally my beloved Master finds one last smear of semen for his softening cock-head to wipe across the so far sheltered center of my upper lip.

 

Gratefully I lick it off, noticing that Master�s monster is still standing at better than half-mast, and in fact is already climbing right back upright to thrust itself as eagerly as ever at the invisible sky. Good lord. How can he have anything more to give? The answer, of course, is that he doesn�t. But that doesn�t mean he isn�t capable of once again fucking me to orgasm with that remarkable prick of his.

 

It will just take few hours, and produce no semen but instead a kind of quivering convulsion that vibrates in my hole like a tuning dork. How he does this I have no idea, but I�m not complaining. I can hardly stand the suspense before he finally gets started. Luckily, for once, he doesn�t make me wait. Master steps around my back, leaving his generous load dripping and drying on my admittedly attractive face � undoubtedly made more attractive with the addition of that degrading adornment � and raises up the spreader-bar. Securing me suspended face-down and waist-high, he moves purposefully inside the triangle of my locked-apart legs.

 

He settles himself: lining up his luscious lunker. Then he seizes me by the hips and spears suddenly forward: forcing himself so far up my unsuspecting ass that I climax deliriously with that first initial thrust. His cock is so hard, so huge, and yet so slickened by my lips that it doesn�t have any trouble opening my anus or even deeply invading my rectum.

 

I squeal like the stuck little pig that I am, as waves of contractions ripple through my groin. Master lifts me right up and lunges forward, forcing himself so painfully far inside I feel like I�ve been split in two. Pumping and grinding, waggling up and down, he stretches me out: opening me wide enough to accommodate his every incredible inch. Then he just starts pounding away, hammering that big hard god-cock constantly further and further and further up into me. Soon his hands drop my hips and grab onto my tits, anchoring his pneumatic rhythm and pulping my tender whipped melons at the same time. Then his merciless pace accelerates, and my screams scale upward in ear-piercing shrieks, as orgasm after orgasm after body-wracking orgasm whip-cracks through me.

 

Later there will be electricity, paddling and caning and more inventive tortures galore. Then, with luck, there will be a final, brutal fucking in whichever orifice gets the honor. But for now I don�t care about any of that. For the next few hours I�ve got my magnificent Master�s stinging marks covering my flesh, his spent spunk covering my face, my poor tits crushed his hands and his relentlessly pile-driving penis lunging and plunging and coring out my helpless, wide-open butt-hole. What more could a torture slut ask for? Go, Master, go! Go-go-go-oh-oh-oh-OH-OH!!